Own The Place
by rattyjol
Summary: DI Swanson is sent up to London to help out on a case and meets a Sergeant with a very specific opinion on a certain man. Oneshot, PG.


**I watched both Torchwood and Sherlock yesterday and noticed how much of a similarity there is between DI Swanson and Sgt Donovan. So this had to be written. I doubt the Cardiff police would actually send one of their DIs up to London just to help on one case, but shhh.**

* * *

Detective Inspector Kathy Swanson did not like London.

It was smoggy and dirty and crowded, and to top it all off it was currently raining.

She wasn't quite sure why she, of all people, had been chosen to come up – only temporarily, thank God – and help out the Londoners, but there she was, and she was seriously considering just going home and giving the idiot whose idea it was to send her there a nice big punch in the face.

At the moment she was huddled under a small plastic awning that had been erected some distance from the body itself, with a cup of hot coffee and one of the London officers. It was Sally D-something, she thought, but she couldn't quite recall the surname.

The investigation seemed to have ground to a standstill, everyone taking shelter beneath awnings or in their cars as they waited for something that Kathy couldn't decipher. A forensics report, maybe? But they hadn't really had time to extract the samples they'd have needed.

Just then, a black London cab screeched to a halt just outside the crime scene tape and a tall man in a dark coat and scarf leapt out, seemingly oblivious to the wet as it slicked down his hair and dripped off his rather impressive cheekbones. Sally D-something made a disapproving _tch_ sound under her breath and pulled out her two-way radio. "Everyone take cover, freak's here." There was a garbled response that Kathy didn't catch over the rain and static and the London officer hooked the radio back onto her belt.

"Who's that, then?" Kathy asked, squinting after him.

"You must be the one from Cardiff," Sally D-something answered, folding her arms across her chest. "That's Sherlock Holmes, psychopath extraordinaire. He's got Lestrade wrapped round his little finger. He just swans in, does what he likes, and swans right out again."

"Oh, we've got a group like that back in Wales," Kathy noted. "He must be part of another branch of Torchwood, then, yeah? Kathy Swanson," she added, extending a polite hand.

"Sally Donovan," Sally D-something replied, shaking the proffered hand. "Torchwood? If he is he's never said. What's that?"

"Special ops. Think they own the city."

"Holmes doesn't think he owns the city. Quite. He just thinks he owns us."

Kathy chuckled. "That too."

Sherlock Holmes returned from his investigation of the body, triumphant with the solution that it was, quite obviously, the man's ex-brother-in-law who killed him, hailed a cab, and vanished into the foggy mess of London streets.

Sally turned to Kathy. "Want to get a drink? There's a pub just round the corner. The others can clean this mess up."

"God yes," Kathy answered, pulling her coat tightly around herself. "Let's go."

Half an hour later the two were sufficiently inebriated and practically in fits at the stories they were exchanging across the grimy surface of a booth table.

"So one of them, Captain Harkness, right? I swear to God every time that man opens his mouth an innuendo comes out. It's like he just can't help himself. God help any girl that ends up with him." Kathy paused, considering. "Or man, for that matter. I think he's gay."

"I think Holmes is asexual. Honestly, there's this girl at St. Bart's – sorry, that's the hospital – she's been chasing after him for _years_ and he never even looks twice. She's sure not ugly, either."

And later, "The first time I met them, they showed up, big black SUV, sunglasses, the works, and they come up and tell us to clear out like they're the only ones competent enough to be around a crime scene. They finish up, leave, and two hours later out of the blue I get this phone call that they've locked themselves in their own base and they need me to read them Emily Dickenson so they can get out."

"Nutters, the whole lot of them," Sally decided, and Kathy raised her half-empty glass in acknowledgement.

"Hear hear." They drank to it and finished off their pints, and while Sally went over to get another round Kathy happened to glance at her watch.

"Damn," she said, getting somewhat unsteadily to her feet and fumbling for her purse. "I'm going to miss my bus." She threw a handful of notes down on the table. "You've got the rest?"

"Yeah, yeah. Good luck with your Torchwood."

"Good luck with your Holmes," Kathy echoed with a grin, and Sally stood for a tipsy hug that reeks of alcohol. "I'll look you up next time I'm in town."

"You do that," Sally agreed, and with that Kathy left, hailing down a taxi and sliding into the back.


End file.
